Tightly-folded bud,
I have wished you something
None of the others would:
Not the usual stuff
About being beautiful,

The river
Of my childhood,
That tumbled
Down a passage of rocks
And cut-work ferns,

I had a dove, and the sweet dove d
And I have thought it died of gri
O what could it grieve for? Its f
With a silken thread of my own han
Sweet little red feet! Why would

I’d seen
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night
under the pines, walking

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye

Meditation is old and honorable, s
not sit, every morning of my life,
looking into the shining world? Be
attended to, delight, as well as h
Can one be passionate about the ju

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief
Is it that they are born again

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.

There are similarities
I notice: that the hills
which the eyes make flat as a wall
together, open as I move
to let me through; become